


where words wane

by alby_mangroves, Elenothar



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles plays the violin, Drawing, Emma and Erik are besties, Fanart, M/M, Telepathy, smitten!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Erik wants is to get this miserable trip over and appease Emma. Why she'd want to go to a park of all places is beyond him, but at least this is (probably) not going to end up as embarrassing as the last time she'd got it into her head that Erik needs to get out more.</p><p>He didn't expect Charles, with his beautiful music and dancing birds and a gift that can set a whole park alight without him even trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where words wane

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the X-Men reverse bang over on LJ ([here](http://xmenreversebang.livejournal.com/))
> 
> My lovely artist was alby_mangroves - please do go over to the art masterpost and leave some love. Thank you again, it was a pleasure to work with you! :)
> 
> Big thanks to afrocurl as well, for a speedy and thorough beta!
> 
> Alby's notes: Thank you to Elenothar for writing a lovely story to complement my art even though it was just a draft at the time, I'm so happy you saw some potential there and were inspired. Thanks to Asya_Ana and SpaceAltie for their beta and cheering ♥ Art has been crossposted to my **[DA](http://albymangroves.deviantart.com/) | [LJ](http://alby-mangroves.livejournal.com/) | [TUMBLR](http://www.artgroves.tumblr.com)**

 

Emma’s legs swing provocatively as she perches herself on the edge of Erik’s desk. He doesn’t even glance up from his calculations.

“What do you want, Emma?” The words come out slightly distorted around the pencil in his mouth.

A cup of steaming coffee appears in front of his nose, smelling heavenly enough he’d wager she broke into Tony’s private stash again. He looks up – coffee of this quality is certainly worth a small break. It occurs to him that Emma probably knows that and is bribing him on purpose, but the caffeine infusion of his first scorching sip is predictably mellowing.

After a moment of blissful contentment, the outsight world shifts back into focus. Emma is clad entirely in blue today – somewhat unusual, since her usual colour palette consists of white, white, white and some more white, but Erik knows better than to ask. The intent look on her face is a far more worrying feature anyway. It’s the look that says ‘I’m bored, give me a project’ and it’s usually followed by mayhem. Projects in the past have ranged from fairly innocent ‘get Azazel to pull his head out of his ass long enough to finally ask Janos out’ to things less so, including the memorably disastrous employee retreat weekend on Hawaii and her favourite regular ‘get Erik Lehnsherr laid no matter what he has to say on the matter’. Erik really hopes it’s not the latter – he barely survived the first three attempts to hook him up with someone with a shred of his dignity intact; quite apart from the fact that he has no interest in dating, thank you very much.

Emma rolls her eyes. “You just don’t want to admit that you had fun. You need to loosen up a bit, Lehnsherr.”

Erik attempts to glare at her, but is side-tracked by the delicious smell of coffee right under his nose and takes another sip instead. “Your definition of fun clearly differs wildly from mine. Please don’t attempt to drag me to a club again in this lifetime.”

She sighs. “ _That_ attitude is exactly what I’m talking about. Even I have fun now and then.”

If by ‘fun’ she means ‘terrorising hapless interns and drinking unsuspecting souls under the table in various high class bars’, Emma indeed has fun fairly frequently, Erik thinks, perhaps somewhat uncharitably.

“Heaven knows I’m not one for smiling much, either, but for fuck’s sake, Lehnsherr, one of these days your face is going to stick that way.”

“And what’s wrong with my face?” he asks with a scowl, mostly to be contrary. The glare she levels him with says quite eloquently that Emma is well aware of this.

Telepathic friends are a pain in the ass.

Emma’s eyes glitter dangerously.

“Now that I think about it, you still _owe_ me one for keeping Azazel of your back.”

Erik’s heart sinks faster than a plummeting meteor. Emma’s ‘ideas’ never wend well for him.

“Maybe?” he hedges.

She ignores his valiant attempt at getting out of whatever she’s cooked up now – the last time Emma cashed in a favour from him ended with Erik being dragged along to the Hellfire Club and him missing a significant chunk of memory the next morning – without outright lying.

“We’re going to Holland Park.”

“We… are?” Erik stares at her, paper crinkling slightly as his grip slackens. “ _Why_?”

Her smile has nothing in common with the general prototype. “I’ll tell you on the way. Meet me at 2 tomorrow.”

“But I’m working –”

She’s already gone, leaving him to curse quietly to himself. He was looking _forward_ to finishing the Helicarrier engine calculations Tony had sent to his desk in the morning. Erik fleetingly gives thought to trying to implore Tony to get him out of it, but the last time he tried that Tony had only laughed at him for five minutes straight and then demanded he take pictures. Of himself in the Hellfire Club. As if. His boss is a cruel, cruel man.

(That he also happens to pay extremely well and is one of Erik’s few actual friends changes nothing.)

At least not too much could go wrong in a public park, could it?

*

Holland Park, on first glance, looks like a typical London park. Crammed in between old streets, it is perhaps bigger than most of the hidden parks of the city, and – Erik grudgingly admits – a sight prettier, but it is still, in essence, _just a park_. He can’t fathom why Emma of all people, who detests nature with the fierce abhorrence of someone used to creature comforts, would want to waste her time here.

Wordlessly, she sweeps past him, heels clacking on the wooden boards of the bridge across the still pond, and with no captivating other options available, Erik follows.

From one minute to the next, he understands.

A sound washes over him, single notes of violin music dancing into each other in the clear air.

But it’s not even the sound that’s special, clear and pure and clearly coaxed with great skill as it is, but the _atmosphere_. A blanket of calm joy is spread over the square, a sudden dampening of reality once stepped into with both feet.

Next to him Emma exhales quietly, an almost peaceful look on her face.

Erik stands and stares, enraptured. A man stands at the edge of the park, under the dim illumination of an ornate street lamp of the kind found often in this old town and his dark curls glow with its light. But that isn’t the most wondrous part, for a small, glittering cloud of birds swirls around the performer’s head and shoulders, twisting in concave shapes as they dip and rise in tune with the notes vibrating in the air around them. And the _colours_. Bright crimson and gleaming golden one moment, the music swoops into minor key and a shift runs through the animals, colours changing to more sombre hues of green and blue in rippling wave.

 

 

His eyes grow dry and yet he does not look away, dares not blink and shut out the vision imprinted in his mind for even a heartbeat.

Bit by bit, every ounce of irritation and frustration accumulated at the fringes of his consciousness over the course of this day, even this week and perhaps more, drains away leaving behind a fuzzy layer of contentment. Erik suddenly feels years lighter than his age.

Not even Emma’s slightly smug smile – though even her razor-sharp edges seem smoothed behind the onslaught of goodwill emanating from the young man – and whisper of _I told you so_ can do anything to taint this momentary peace.

After an hour the performance ceases, silence invading the space that dancing music had occupied. Were it not for his watch which told him in no uncertain terms that yes, 60 minutes had indeed disappeared from the day, Erik would not have noticed the passage of time.

He dawdles, ignoring Emma’s impatient tutting and approaches the player once everyone else has cleared off. To complete his pretence, he floats a few coins into the case at the man’s feet. It’s a use of his power that’s second nature to him now, born from his rebellious teenage years in which he used his powers for the smallest things just to show the world that he could and _would_. He doesn’t even think about the action, until the man’s startlingly blue eyes fix on the floating coins and a bright smile appears on his features.

The coins drop with a soft _clink_ and despite the already mostly full state of his violin case, the smile the other directs at Erik is unwaveringly enthused. Unbidden, the corners of his own mouth twitch up.

And then the man _winks_ at him.

It’s all Erik can do not to let his surprise show. People, in his experience, don’t actually do that kind of thing outside of movies. But no, that was definitely a wink.

Shaking his head slightly in confused wonder, Erik turns away. There’s no reason for him to linger longer, after all, and he has the suspicious feeling that he really should get his thoughts sorted out soon. He imagines the stranger’s stare burning into his back all the way to where Emma is waiting for him.

Erik is quiet for most of the way back to the SI Headquarters, lost in recollection. Already the memory seems dimmed, a little unreal as if he had never witnessed birds dancing around a fiddler in abandon safe in a distant dream.

When they’ve left the cab at the nearest street corner, he finally opens his mouth. “Why the birds?”

The sense of contentment and peace, the superb music – all that he can explain to himself. But this piece of the puzzle is still missing.

Emma frowns at him. “Birds? What birds?”

Erik halts in mid-stride. “You didn’t see the birds?

Emma frowns and then her familiar cool touch ghosts over the outer layer of Erik’s mind where the fantastical images still lingered. “ _Interesting_.”

“What?” he asks, recovering some of his grumpiness in the face of her mystery-mongering.

Her brow smoothes out. “He’s a telepath, honey. You figure it out.”

She passes through the door that he automatically holds open, doesn’t look at him when her voice sounds in his head, distantly amused _And if you can’t, you can always go back_.

Emma probably doesn’t expect him to actually take her half-serious advice, but that’s exactly what Erik ends up doing. To himself, he admits that it’s entirely possible that he couldn’t have stayed away anyway.

Week 2 Erik is the first to smile at the violinist as he drops a few coins into the case and receives a specially bright smile in return.

Week 3 he ventures a _hello_ and there is laughter in the other man’s voice when he returns the greeting. They spend three minutes talking about the weather, like proper Englishmen do, before the other announces that he’s got to dash, terribly sorry. He’s gone in a flurry of dark coat, scarf flapping along behind, leaving only a _goodbye_.

Week 4 they manage a whole ten minutes of conversation and Erik spends the rest of the weekend with a ridiculous smile on his face.

In week 5 it occurs to Erik that he may have a problem.

It’s week 6 and the violinist looks at him, head cocked to the side, even as he is busy placing his violin into the burgundy velvet lining of the case at his feet.

“My name is Charles,” he offers, quite out of the blue. His mouth twitches slightly. “I do believe seeing each other every Saturday for weeks probably labels us acquaintances and I’d be rather disappointed to remain ‘the violinist’ forever.”

“Erik,” he manages in return, sounding only slightly choked with surprise, and proud of it.

Charles’ lips are very red when they pull into full-blown smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Erik.”

Week 7 sees them strolling through the garden for a while, Charles pointing out various interesting plants that Erik’s neither ever heard of before nor could claim to be particularly fascinated by. He is more than content to watch Charles talk animatedly, a captivating elegance to his gestures.

And then week 8 arrives and Charles _isn’t there_. The gardens lie quiet and empty, the silence almost oppressive where sweet music should sound. Erik waits for hours, huddling in the cold and even conceding to go buy third-rate coffee from a nearby Pret in a vain effort to keep warm. Charles doesn’t come, the park remains empty. Occasionally he sees other passers-by looking around in dejected confusion and disappearing again shortly after. When the pale winter sun finally gives in and sinks below the waiting tree line, Erik gives up.

Week 9 proves equally desolate.

It’s week 10, there’s still no sign of Charles and Erik decides something has to be done. A niggling voice at the back of his mind warns him that he has no right to go snooping where he hasn’t been invited, reminds that he doesn’t even really know Charles, beyond those magical birds that apparently only he can see.

His first attempt, a simple google search yields no tangible results beyond a sense of perplexed surrealism when he finds the Wikipedia article on _Holland Park_ with its subsection _Urban Myth_. His eyebrows climb up his face as he skims through the section. Apparently Charles is a magical well of positive emotions. He would laugh at the absurdity of the claim, if there wasn’t at least an element of truth to it.

It rankles a bit that Charles’ mutation is written off as magic, especially when people would, in all probability, react much less favourably if they knew he was actually a telepath. Acceptance of the good, the beautiful, the _stunning_ sides of mutation has always been slower than the that of the dangerous. Erik is aware that the article is only half-serious and no one actually believes that there’s a magical well in a park in the middle of London, but still they could at least get their terminology right.

Week 11, and for the first time in living memory, Erik is actively distracted at work. He grumbles and shouts less, but the work isn’t eaten up at the same speed it usually is – and though he doesn’t allow himself to slacken enough to compromise the quality of what he submits for further review, even the newest employee can tell that his mind isn’t quite as focused on his job as office rumour would suggest is his habit.

He isn’t used to worrying about other people. In his less charitable moments he thinks that he _shouldn’t_ be worrying about a complete stranger, but then he remembers the light in Charles’ eyes, the curve of his smile and the violin bow stroking joyously over strings and is helpless to stop.

Erik doesn’t even realise he’s been staring at the same report for half an hour until Emma stomps through the door, heels clacking on the smooth floor with even more finality than usual.

“Tell me what’s eating you or I _will_ make you,” she demands without so much as a greeting. The threat is mostly empty; there are boundaries that even Emma, who is defiantly unashamed of her mutation, won’t cross, but he doesn’t doubt that she would get it out of him sooner or later.

“He hasn’t been there for the last two weeks,” he mumbles, not even properly ashamed at his own ridiculousness.

Emma raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Who?”

Erik marshals a glare. She knows _full_ well who. “Charles.”

“Ah, so you did find out at his name.”

“ _You_ know his name?”

“Sugar, how did you think I knew about this? I’m not in the habit of trawling through London’s parks on a whim. Far too many dreadfully dull people. Joggers.” She shudders delicately.

Erik continues to boggle at her. “ _You know him_?!”

She finally takes pity on him. “Childhood acquaintances, if you will. Once your family has a certain amount of money and standing it’s hard not to meet every young family member of blue-blooded descent.” Emma takes a look at his stunned incomprehension, and sighs. “You didn’t get his last name, did you?”

Erik’s brows draw together in an irritated glare. “You never mentioned this!”

“I hardly thought it was relevant. Really, Erik, I don’t just let anyone tamper with my mind, however minor.”

He opens his mouth to return something equally scathing, then changes his mind. He ever so hates Emma having the upper hand, he doesn’t need to give her more reason to dangle this information over his head as revenge.

“Do you know what’s wrong then?”

Emma regards him silently for a moment, head cocked. “Why do you think there’s anything wrong?”

Erik frowns – yes, why _does_ he think that? – then ventures, “Because he clearly loves coming to the park to play and he didn’t say he would be absent, so I assumed it wasn’t voluntary.”

His answer has managed to surprise her, and usually he would’ve awarded himself a couple of mental brownie points, but he’s too distracted to care.

“No, I don’t know what’s up with him.” The answer is honest. For all her wiles, that much Erik can always tell. “As far as I’m aware nothing major has happened to him, but beyond that? You’d have to ask him.” She raises an admonitory eyebrow. “And even if I did know, you should know better than to expect me to tell you. His business is his own.”

Erik subsides into something that the grown man in him quails at calling a sulk.

Emma throws her hands up in the air. “I meant for you to just bloody calm down for a moment, not to go all gooey and distracted over a stranger!”

Before Erik can muster a suitable defence, a new thoughtfulness enters her gaze. “I really wouldn’t have pegged him as your type. All that straight-laced good-heartedness…” Something very much like unholy glee rises on her face, her lips twitching into a predatory smile. “Of all people, _Charles Xavier_ has managed to make you lose your wits. I can’t wait to tell Tony!”

Erik manfully resists the urge to bang his head on the table. Repeatedly. “Tony knows him _too_?”

The look she levels him with _almost_ manages to be pitying.

*

*

His decision to return to the park one more time before doing something drastic (read: stalkery) turns out to be fortuitous. Charles once more occupies his usual spot near the edge of the park under that slightly wonky street lamp that Erik can probably pick out in his sleep at this point.

When Charles’ performance has wound down – this week with a piece that Erik vaguely attributes to Grieg, something slow and sad – Erik approaches him. The bench Charles has flopped down onto is cold even through his coat, but he has only eyes for Charles.

“I missed you these last few weeks.”

Charles looks tired, a bone-deep weariness that speaks from the minute slump of his shoulders, his slightly dull eyes.

He must’ve picked up on Erik’s worry, for he summons a smile. “Don’t worry yourself on my behalf, my friend. I’m fine. It was a family issue.” His smile deepens into something more sincere. “However sweet of you it is to worry.”

Erik nods mutely, an ever so slight blush warming his cheeks. It really is rather ridiculous of him, isn’t it?

But Charles is shaking his head, eyes glinting entirely earnestly. “No, not it’s not.”

At Erik’s start, he adds, apologetic, “Sorry, surface thoughts. They’re almost impossible for me to ignore.”

Only long exposure to Emma keeps him from panicking about every possible thought that Charles may have picked up on regarding, well, himself mostly.

Charles seems to be studying him for a reaction, and looks slightly relieved when no dramatic one is forthcoming.

“I’m friends with a telepath,” Erik volunteers. “She’s drilled into my head by now that there’re some things she just can’t help doing.”

“Ah, yes, Emma.” Charles nods. “She did mention.”

“You two are in contact?!”

Charles looks at him, somewhat askance. “Of course. Ever since we were children.”

Erik has the sudden overwhelming urge to strangle Emma. Of all the things _not_ to tell him!

“I’d rather you not kill Emma,” Charles says, an amused quirk to his lips. “Especially if you could go out for a drink with me instead.”

It takes Erik’s brain a moment to catch up with what his ears have just heard.

Half an hour and one fairly enthusiastic (for Erik’s standards) yes later, Erik’s on his second pint (not any better tasting than the first, alas), while Charles still nurses his first pint of Guinness, when he finally brings up the birds.

Charles’ eyes, impossibly, seem even bluer when open wide in shock. “You can see my _birds_?”

Erik frowns. “Yes?”

Charles keeps staring at him, then breathes, “That doesn’t normally happen.”

His frown deepens. “I thought the park was famous _because_ of your projections when playing.”

“The projected feelings, yes,” Charles says, teeth worrying his lower lip. His eyes are trained on Erik’s face, still wide. “No one has ever seen my birds.”

Erik shifts a little in his chair, not quite uncomfortable but certainly a little disquieted.

“But what are they?” Erik prompts. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 _Nor anything so beautiful_.

Charles blushes, fiddling with his coaster.

“Ever since I can remember I’ve envisioned musical notes as birds. It made learning melodies and rhythm easy, having them fly about me, calm when I was playing correctly and chaotic when I wasn’t.” He smiles to himself, the line of his mouth tinged with wistful remembrance. “Sometimes I would miss notes on purpose just to see them flutter about in a tizzy.”

“They’re just… there?”

Charles nods, his eyes suddenly avoiding Erik’s as if he’s aware that his claim is entirely outlandish and thus used to it being rejected out of hand. “I never really questioned it,” he admits quietly. “They’re there and they’re mine and beyond that?” He shrugs.

Erik smiles at him, projecting some of his acceptance the way Emma has taught him. “Considering some of the mutations out there, I hardly think this ranks in the top ten weirdest things I’ve seen. It was just unexpected.”

He can almost feel the air loosening its tightness around him when Charles relaxes again.

“Then you’re more accepting than many,” Charles says, somewhat wryly.

“And the projected emotions?” Erik asks. Charles doesn’t seem to mind the questions and after weeks of wondering Erik’s thirst for answers has done rather the opposite of diminishing.

Charles, despite their earlier conversation, suddenly looks _sheepish_.

“My shields go a bit gooey when I play. It wasn’t really intentional the first few times, but by the time someone pointed it out to me and I started being more careful with my shielding people complained that something was missing from the performance and could I please undo whatever I had changed.”

He shakes his head slightly, looking vaguely amazed. “People had never really _wanted_ me to use my telepathy like this before. Though I doubt they saw it in quite those terms.”

Erik grits his teeth at the edge of resignation that surfaces in Charles’ words. “We shouldn’t have to hide.”

Charles’ eyes meet his, wide and blue and _sad_. “Who said anything about hiding?” His lips twist in a dry mockery of his usually sincere smile. “I’ve never hidden who and what I am, but, Erik, it has not made me friends. Even among mutants, telepaths are something of a group of misfits. Trusts doesn’t come easily towards those who could expose your innermost thoughts in the blink of an eye.”

Erik _wants_ to deny it, to protest whole-heartedly, but the truth is that he’s been Emma Frost’s friend for long enough to know what kind of prejudice telepaths face, even among mutants. It’s equally disturbing and annoying, and he wishes it wasn’t true, but it is.

It makes Charles’ knowingly resigned gaze all the worse.

A fierce wish to protect rises in him, to shield Charles from anyone who might mean him harm, whether through words or deeds, no matter that it’s too late, the world has already hurt him – but Charles still stands tall, unbroken, and shows what he can do to the world with the flick of a bow and the dancing of birds.

This, he decides then and there, is a man he could love.

(Who is he kidding, he’s already more than halfway there.)

“So what do you do then, when you’re not amazing a group of people in a public park?” Erik asks, taking another sip of his beer. Charles’ eyebrows twitch at the blatant change of subject, but he doesn’t comment.

“I’m a professor of genetics,” he says, nothing in his tone suggesting that that might be something out of the ordinary, despite the fact that Erik would swear he isn’t older than thirty and a violin virtuoso to boot.

Swallowing all the obvious questions for the moment, Erik prods, “Here in London?”

Charles shakes his head. “At Oxford. I spent my weekends here because of my sister. She’s involved in theatre.”

“Well, colour me impressed.” Erik smiles at the pleased glint in Charles’ eyes. He might not be one to boast, but he’s not too humble to know what an achievement a professorship at Oxford University is at his age. “Why genetics?”

“Other than all the obvious reasons?” Charles asks dryly, motioning to his head with two fingers. “I always wanted to study mutation – it’s the cause of such wonderful variation in us, and still we know very little about it, compared to some other parts of science.”

“Why not music?” Erik asks, idly tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip.

Charles’ face tightens a fraction, then relaxes again, though Erik suspects that to be a very deliberate action.

“I honestly never wanted to study music as a subject. It’s always been an integral part of my life, but not something I wished to analyse too much. Some of their magic is lost if you look too closely at things, I’ve always found. It’s the same reason I wouldn’t want to study literature.”

Erik nods in understanding, which is apparently enough for Charles, for he smiles and ask, “What about you then? It’s only fair I get to know what you do for a living too.”

“Of course. I work at the London branch of Stark Industries, as Head Engineer.”

Charles grins. “Oh you work for Tony? I’m surprised you haven’t run for the hills yet.”

“Well,” Erik drawls, “he’s mostly in the states, so the urge to strangle him is usually manageable. And JARVIS tends to run interference when he gets too impossible.”

Charles smothers a snicker in his beer.

Exchanging stories about Tony and Emma got them through another hour (and oh did Erik have to restrain his glee at the blackmail material that Charles was freely supplying him with), and the sky is darkening outside the little pub when Charles finally announces that he really should go or his sister would really start to worry.

Erik can’t really bring himself to protest, not when Charles leans closer with a curiously shy smile and asks, “How about dinner on Tuesday, if you’re free?”

“I think that was my part in the script,” Erik replies, raising one eyebrow.

“Well, I _was_ waiting for you to make the first move for weeks, but it looked more and more like I’d be old and grey before you would, so I had to take matters into my own hands.” Charles laughs quietly. “It set a dangerous precedent.”

This time Erik doesn’t attempt to hide his smile. “I don’t think I mind that precedent too much.”

*

*

“Spill,” is the first word that comes out of Emma’s mouth Monday morning. His friend barging into his office without so much of a knock is nothing new, so Erik barely looks up from his work.

“What?”

“The park. Saturday.” She jabs a finger at him. “ _Charles_.”

He narrows his eyes. “How do you know there’s anything _to_ spill?”

“You’ve been pining for him for weeks now, of course there’s something to spill. Hop to it.”

Erik gives in to the inevitable. “He was back at the park, played for a while, and then we had a drink in a nearby pub.”

Her eyebrows rise. “And?”

“And _nothing_ ,” he growls. “We talked, that’s all. We’re going to have dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh? Where?”

“I don’t know yet. He said he’d call.” And Erik would be damned before he admitted to Emma Frost that he’d been checking his phone religiously all day. Not that she doesn’t already know, judging by the delighted glint in her eyes, but he certainly isn’t going to say it out loud.

“Well, I’d dust off my suit if I were you,” she says, eyes glinting. “Charles has good taste.”

“For a first date?”

He can’t quite hide his dismay. Erik has never been very comfortable in formal clothing.

Emma regards him coolly. “He might. To see if you’ll cut your losses and run.”

Erik winces. That’s the kind of thing _he_ might do too. He doesn’t think Charles is very much like him overall, but he can see him having some trust issues – especially considering he’d so far entirely neglected to tell Erik about his background.

Emma seems to have followed the line of his thoughts, for she looks uncommonly grim, slim mouth a hard line.

“Be careful, all right?”

Erik suddenly has trouble keeping his chin from falling down in shock. “What?”

She huffs, as if put out that he’s actually making her say it.

“He’s the kind of person who plays in a park for fun and is then surprised when he actually makes money from it and gives it all to charity. Don’t damage him, Erik.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

But for once Emma stays completely serious. “I mean it, Erik. Charles is good people. He was kind to me when barely anyone else bothered to and never held the fact over my head.”

She balances the unexpected soppiness with a glare that promised a long and painful death should he ever repeat this conversation to anyone.”

Erik smiles, not actually that surprised that Charles would be one of the few people who can get through the layer of ice Emma shields her heart with.

“I will do my best.”

She regards him for a moment longer, then nods curtly. “See that you do.”

*

*

Charles’ flat looks exactly like Erik imagined. He is tempted to ask how Charles can afford to live in Oxford and keep a flat in a fairly nice neighbourhood in London at the same time, before he realizes what a stupid question that would be. Someone operating in the same circles as Emma is bound to come from money, generally old money, and anyway, it’s hardly first (second?) date material. Though not exactly undemanding in criteria to look for in a potential partner, Erik’s never cared much for their financial standing, at least.

As is his habit when first entering a new environment, Erik stretches out his senses, ghosting his awareness of metal over every surface, into every object. Some might call it an intrusion, for it gives Erik a far more accurate idea of everything that clutters Charles’ flat than anyone else would have at first visit, but he already knows Charles won’t mind.

In fact, Charles is watching him with a mixture of soppiness and fascination.

His gaze passes over old but comfortable looking furniture, a very small kitchen, noting the lack of TV. Everything is in warm, inviting colours, dark blues and reds and browns, with the stunning effect of making Erik, who usually takes a while to warm up to new places, feel immediately at home.

Charles takes of his jacket, the first few buttons of his shirt already undone – over dinner he’d admitted to Erik that he hates the way they restrict his range of movement and tries to get away with not wearing a tie as often as possible – and hangs it over the back of a chair. He motions towards the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to make a cup of tea.”

Tea wasn’t, perhaps, what Erik had had in mind when he’d accepted Charles’ invitation to come on up after walking him to his door, but then again he isn’t British and had already been lectured on the virtues of tea by his friends who are, for long enough to no roll with it.

“I’m surprised that you’ve spent so much time here and not yet been converted to tea being the answer to all needs,” Charles comments lightly, clearly having caught the gist of Erik’s thoughts. Despite his words, he continues preparing a kettle of the stuff with the practiced motions of someone who does this several times a day. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Milk, please,” Erik replies. Milk at least makes the dark, bitter tea the English seem to favour palatable.

Charles looks up at him and grins.

Erik catches himself thinking that for that smile Erik would gladly drink ten cups a day of the stuff. His first reaction to the unexpected thought is alarm – surely he shouldn’t be this attached already? The second reaction, bafflingly, is a rather less negative sense of _and why not?_

Charles has turned back to his tea, but his head is lowered only just enough that Erik can still make out the fond smile, a gentle upturning, that now curves his lips.

That expression, Erik likes even more than the grin.

Charles flushes, and suddenly there’s an image in Erik’s head, wonderfully detailed – an almost chaste press of lips against lips, Charles’s eyes closing in bliss, the satin feeling of a tongue swiping his bottom lip…

He doesn’t even realize he’s moved until he’s standing right in front of Charles, who’s looking at him with wide eyes, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks.

Erik leans down, and lets imagination become reality.

*

*

Erik meets Raven after their fourth date in half as many weeks. It isn’t a planned encounter; if it had been planned he’s pretty sure Charles wouldn’t have frozen in complete mortification when Raven cleared her throat after they’d tumbled through Charles’ flat’s door, still kissing.

While Charles is trying to get his somewhat rumpled clothes and hair under control, a delightful blush heating his cheekbones, Erik regards the person lounging on Charles’ sofa as if it belonged to her. It isn’t hard to figure out that this is the infamous Raven, even if she wasn’t almost entirely nude and blue. Erik is pretty sure only a respect for Charles’ delicate sensibilities makes her wear enough to cover her breasts and other sensitive areas.

“I thought I told you to call before you drop by,” Charles grumbles, having apparently decided that his hair was a loss and given up on achieving respectability.

Raven shrugs, looking supremely unconcerned. “I’ve got a standing invitation.”

Charles opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again thinking better of it. Erik would bet most of his salary that this is a well-trodden path of conversation. Instead he gesture to Erik and then to Raven and back again. “Erik, Raven. Raven, Erik.”

Keen golden eyes are doing as much seizing up as Erik’s are.

“I’m impressed, Charles. For your first foray into dating in five years you’re doing well.”

Charles groans. “I swear, Raven, even if I forgot for a moment that you live to embarrass me it really wouldn’t last long.”

But Raven, Erik notes with some surprise, isn’t even looking at Charles; rather, her gaze is boring into Erik with enough intensity that he gets the distinct feeling this is a test of some sort.

“I don’t know what happened five years ago,” he says mildly, “But Charles could certainly do better than me if he wanted to. I, for my part, am glad that he chose not to.”

Startled eyes flick to her brother. “You haven’t told him?”

Charles physically winces and mumbles, “It hasn’t come up yet.”

When Raven looks dubious, he adds defensively, “We have only been dating a couple of weeks, you know.”

She rolls her eyes. “All I’ve been hearing is Erik, Erik, Erik for months now, Charles. Don’t kid yourself.”

Charles looks extremely uncomfortable, his eyes flickering between Raven and Erik like a cornered deer’s. “Can we please talk about this some other time, Raven?”

The siblings stare at each other for another few silent seconds, but then Raven nods and returns her attention to Erik.

“So, how’d you meet my brother then?”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “I thought you already knew everything about me.”

Raven sighs, sending Charles a look that Erik can only interpret as a ‘you deserve that one’ kind of look. “I’ve heard Charles’ perspective. I want to hear it from _you_.”

Seeing Charles grimace behind his sister’s back, and the spark of mischief in her eyes – clearly she likes needling her brother as much as Erik likes needling his friends –  Erik thinks that he might actually get along fine with her.

One more obstacle down.

*

*

They’re back in the park. The first green of spring is showing in early bloomers, the bitter cold replaced by weak rays of sunlight.

They sit on their bench, looking out over the park. Charles is whistling tonelessly, delight in his eyes as they both watch a single bird with gleaming navy feathers dance happily through the frosty air.

 

 

“Charles,” Erik says quietly, eyes tracking the bird as it makes exultant loops in the air, “why are you a professor? This” – he gestures somewhat helplessly – “ _music_ … I’ve never seen anyone treat music like you do.”

Old lines of pain mar Charles’ features when he turns away, profile throwing stark shadows onto the ground. “Some things aren’t meant to be. Some things we don’t have control over.” His eyes are dark when he looks back at Erik. “I was this once, only this.”

Gentle fingers absently glide over the smooth leather of his violin case. “It consumes you, playing professional music, doesn’t leave a care for anything else, only the music shaping in you and around you. Some call it addicting and the truth is, once you’ve dipped your foot in it never lets you go. You can’t quite playing music any more than you can quit breathing once you’ve reached that level.”

His fingers pale as his grip tightens. “When I went from playing a lot in student orchestras to being playing full-time in the BBC Symphony Orchestra, I started having chronic pain in my hands, my wrists. The doctors told me to take it easy, to take care of myself rather than always play, but that didn’t help.” He snorts bitterly. “Apparently I have a genetic disposition for overuse. It got to the point that I could hardly play, and certainly not as much as I needed to to stay in the orchestra. Sometimes I still think it’s a miracle I stopped before I did myself permanent damage. When Raven suggested I do this I jumped at the chance.”

He smiles, a wry cynical little thing that Erik’s never seen on his face before. It looks horribly out of place. “It took me years to come to terms with not playing professionally anymore and I _still miss it_. Playing here in the park helps, has its own kind of beauty and peace, but it’s not the same. It’s enough, just about, but not the same.”

“Well, I for one am grateful that you do play here,” Erik says and he reaches over and lays his palm over Charles’ white-knuckled grip, until slowly he can feel cold fingers relax below his touch.

There’s something more genuine to the tilt of Charles’ lips in reply. “Such a romantic, Erik.”

Erik scowls without a trace of true irritation. “Only for you. And you better not tell anyone else. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“I wouldn’t dream of giving away your secret,” Charles says solemnly, only the renewed glint in his eyes betraying his amusement.

“I’ve lived in London for over ten years now, and still I didn’t know that this nice little park exists,” Erik muses idly some time later.

“My father brought me here when I first manifested. Back then there was hardly anyone here, just a little green spot in the middle of London. And there was this violinist standing on the bridge, almost every time we came here.” Charles’ eyes are focused in the distance, a memory only he can see. “He always played Verdi. Must’ve made his way through all his pieces in the year that we went.”

“I accidentally projected at him once and he –” Charles smiles. “He didn’t mind. Just came over and said _Hang on to that sense of wonder, little one. There isn’t much that is more beautiful in this world_.”

He lapses into silence, still staring into nothing.

“What happened to him?” Erik asks gently, almost afraid to draw Charles from his reverie.

Blue eyes refocus slowly. “I don’t know. He was gone one day. My father not long after. I wanted to forget for a while and, well, for a telepath that’s a lot more literal a phrase than for most people. By the time I let myself remember it was too late.”

“You’re remembering him now,” Erik says softly, squeezing his hand. “You are remembering him every week with your music.”

The golden light of the late afternoon sun glints in Charles’ eyes as he smiles and squeezes Erik’s hand in return.

“I suppose that is all anyone could ask for.”

*

*

Erik sneaks a glance at the man next to him, much like he’s done all evening. Charles is sitting perfectly straight-backed on the plush seat with an expression on his face that looks more like stubborn determination than honest enjoyment, despite the lovely music washing over them from the stage.

It had been Charles’ idea to celebrate their one month anniversary by going to see the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican. Erik, ever the more cautious one had, with some hesitation, suggested doing something with less potential for… controversy, but Charles had been adamant. Having figured out in the first week of their acquaintance that saying no to Charles is as difficult as it is generally fruitless, Erik had not belaboured the point.

Now, he regrets his inaction.

When the intermission finally comes, he wastes no time in dragging a still slightly pale Charles outside for a breath of fresh air, and (entirely incidentally) a dark corner without curious onlookers.

“Charles, we don’t have to stay here. I don’t mind,” he says gently, but apparently not gently enough for Charles jerks sharply, his eyes flashing at Erik.

“I need to see this through. I can’t let this irrationality continue to guide my life!” he snaps, and then deflates in the next heartbeat. “I used to love going to concerts, Erik, just enjoying the music and the atmosphere even when I wasn’t playing. I want that _back_.”

Though this is a sentiment Erik understands all too well, he still has doubts. “This is hurting you, love, and I don’t like it.”

Charles suddenly looks very small, even in his impeccable suit and tie. “I can’t let go of the memories. Whenever I look at the stage, I see _myself_ there, forget for a moment that it will never happen again.”

Erik reaches for him and Charles steps into his arms immediately, resting his head on Erik’s shoulder. Holding him this close, Erik can feel the minute tremors racing through his partner’s body.

“It _doesn’t_ define you,” he whispers fiercely, “you are so much more than that, Charles. You still make other people happy with your music, and from what you’ve told me about your research that too is worthwhile. I wish you could see it.” Charles has calmed, but he still avoids Erik’s eyes, so Erik takes a deep breath and goes for complete honesty. “I can’t help but be thankful that that isn’t you on the stage.”

Charles startles in his arms, blue eye blinking up at Erik’s face without comprehension, but Erik continues before he can say anything. “If it were, I would never have met you.”

Disbelief warps into warmth in the space of a heartbeat and for the first time that evening Charles smiles, a true smile accompanied by the mental warmth of his telepathy winding around Erik’s thoughts.

“Thank you, Erik,” he says quietly, but no less sincerely. “I think I needed to hear that.”

A gong sounds through the open door of the theatre.

“Coming?” Erik asks, holding out his hand.

With another smile, Charles takes it.

Suffice to say, the second half of the concert turns out much more enjoyable.

**Author's Note:**

> Art crossposted to Alby's [DA](http://albymangroves.deviantart.com/) | [LJ](http://alby-mangroves.livejournal.com/) | [TUMBLR](http://www.artgroves.tumblr.com)


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